


Another Lonely Night

by VoidWhisperer



Category: Romeo And Juliet - All Media Types, Romeo And Juliet - Shakespeare, Romeo et Juliette - Presgurvic
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Canon Compliant, Depression, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, One Shot, flower symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-02
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2018-11-08 07:23:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11076786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VoidWhisperer/pseuds/VoidWhisperer
Summary: Twenty years after Mercutio's death, Benvolio wanders through Verona's graveyard, reflecting on his life and the lost love he has mourned for two decades.





	Another Lonely Night

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first published fanfiction—on AO3, at least— and I'm very nervous about posting it. It's unbeta-d because I don't have anyone to read my work yet, so there's probably a few mistakes. I think this piece works for most Romeo and Juliet media (the sequence of events is 100% based on the original play) but my character headcanons are all from the French revival version of Roméo et Juliette. John Eyzen is just so— AHHHHH! And Cyril Niccolaï... (*fanboy squee*) God, so many glittery gays. 
> 
> The title is taken from the song 'Another Lonely Night' by Adam Lambert.

Benvolio walked quietly through the graveyard, his shallow breathing the only sound save for the rustling of leaves in the wind. He paused for a moment beside a grave laden with flowers and stretched out a hand to pluck a stem of wormwood. A cluster of amaranth came away with it, and Benvolio held the woody stems beneath his nose, breathing in their dusty, herbaceous scents. In the moonlight, the wormwood was dull and brown, but the amaranth seemed to glow with a promise of eternity.

A broken promise, Benvolio thought bitterly. Though not, he reminded himself, broken intentionally.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The streets of Verona were quiet now, the Montagues and Capulets at peace for years. Brawls no longer broke out, and Benvolio had even had the opportunity to wed Rosaline Capulet—an offer he had turned down rather bluntly, shocking both families. They didn’t understand his choice.

In three days, it would be the twentieth anniversary of the deaths of Juliet Capulet and her lover, Benvolio’s own cousin Romeo Montague. Following the first few years of mourning, the tragic day had transformed into a celebration of unity and love. Prince Escalus, now old and frail, was especially pleased with the turnaround, and each year he could be found meeting with Lords Montague and Capulet to plan street festivals instead of scuffles and feasts instead of funerals. But Benvolio almost wished the days of blood feuds and violence would return.

In those days, at least, he had not been lonely.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Twenty years from this day, Benvolio had lost his dearest friend.

No.

More than a friend.

Benvolio and Mercutio had known each other since they were children. Always the peacekeeper, Benvolio had found life in Mercutio’s carefree attitude and penchant for sharp jokes and later found love in dark nights spent together away from the prying eyes of Verona’s citizens.

Then, in an instant, Tybalt—curse his name—tore the whole world away from Benvolio and left him without a heart.

Had Romeo not struck first, Benvolio imagined he would have relished the feeling of cutting Tybalt’s throat. But he had chosen to remain at Mercutio’s side instead, the threat of losing a lover the only thing to stay his hand from committing an unforgivable crime. Benvolio had done everything he could, using first his hands, then a strip of cloth to try and staunch Mercutio’s bleeding as they waited for a surgeon, but to no avail. And as Mercutio gasped his final words—a slurry of “I love you”s and “don’t cry”s—Benvolio had held him close, shaking and unable to stop the tears from flowing.

Their last kiss had left him almost scarred. Mercutio’s body went limp in his arms, and Benvolio could not shake the thought that he had stolen his lover’s final breath.

He left the house a changed man.

“Oh, Romeo…” he had whispered, hardly able to speak through the tears. “Brave Mercutio is dead.” 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Benvolio had always been sober compared to his two best friends, but he now seemed more ghost than man, thirty-seven now, and unmarried. There had never been another to replace Mercutio—no man, woman, or anyone else. Not even the brothels held any interest to him. Benvolio drifted through life, rarely speaking, rarely smiling.

Only a few times had he visibly shown any emotion at all; namely the time Lord Montague had insisted on seeing him wed. The Montagues and Capulets had attempted to arrange a union between Benvolio and Rosaline Capulet, one of Romeo’s former paramours, and in response, Benvolio had flown into a rage. There had been tears, profanity, broken ceramic, and slammed doors; in the end, he had caused so much destruction that everyone else in the room had recoiled in a mix of pity and fear.

“Poor boy,” Lady Capulet had murmured, wringing her hands in distress. “So young, and so averse to marriage. I suppose I would be too, had I lost my dearest cousin to the whims of love.”

_No!_ Benvolio had wanted to scream. _You speak of what you do not understand. My cousin’s death has naught to do with my grief. I am in love, ‘tis true, but in love with death—for death has stolen my only love away!_

After that day, there had never been another attempt, but rumors had begun to circulate. All wrong, of course, as rumors often were. The people of Verona whispered that Benvolio communed with the dead, that he and Romeo had been lovers, or that, even more strangely, Benvolio himself had died of grief and come back as a spirit to haunt the people of the city. When he walked down the street, people shied away, closing their doors and windows.

“Poor Benvolio Montague, still mourning his cousin all these years later,” they would murmur to their children in explanation. “But do stay away—he lives half in the spirit world, and he will steal you away if you go too near.”

It was almost enough to make him laugh.

Almost.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

At first, Benvolio had considered moving away from Verona to live in the countryside where the rumors could not follow him, but he could not bear to leave Mercutio’s grave. He moved into a small cottage near the graveyard and each evening, he would tend to not only the Escalus crypt but to all of the tombs and individual graves. The love he granted the dead became evident as the graveyard grew into a place of beauty. Night-blooming vines crept along the cemetery walls, and small, colorful flowers lined the paths and dotted the grass. On Sundays, he would put fresh-cut flowers on each grave that had not already been adorned by grieving relatives and friends. And in the summer, he would spend each night curled up in the long grass in front of the Escalus tomb, as close as he could get to Mercutio without being persecuted for disturbing the royal dead. But tonight, even the grass seemed too far.

Tucking the wormwood and amaranth into his coat, Benvolio pulled at one of the great doors of the tomb, wincing at the loud, grating sound of stone against stone. Thank God for the darkness, he thought, and, lighting a torch, he descended into the darkness.

Mercutio’s grave was topped by a carved stone likeness of him, so painfully realistic that Benvolio felt tears beginning to prick at his eyelids. The sculptors had not gotten his expression right, but how could they? It wouldn’t be right to have a nobleman’s grave marker winking and smirking, grinning wildly, or else leering indecently. It would have been too disrespectful. No, Mercutio’s likeness was eerily serene. His eyes were closed, and his brow smooth and relaxed; his lips, full and slightly parted, were curled into the slightest of smiles. Around his head, unruly curls formed a halo that, if not soft to the touch, at least bore the likeness of a cloud. If it was not for the paleness of the marble, Benvolio could almost imagine that Mercutio was alive and simply asleep atop an empty grave.

Alas, it was not to be.

Benvolio placed the torch in an old, iron sconce, laid his flowers down by Mercutio’s stony face and, after a moment’s thought, awkwardly draped his own body over the statue, resting his head on Mercutio’s chest. His eyes were watering now, and Benvolio let the tears flow freely in the darkness where no one else could see. “Would that I had died with you that day. Or better yet, in your place,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “What were you thinking, love? Oh, Mercutio… how could you leave me in this world alone?”

Surrounded by flickering shadows and long-dead bodies, Benvolio drifted into fitful sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning, Benvolio awoke to find himself still lying atop Mercutio’s grave. His body was stiff and ached from lying atop the hard stone, but he forced himself to stand. It was Sunday, and he was due to bring flowers to the dead.

Sadly, he traced the contours of Mercutio’s face and ran his fingers over the carved marble curls of Mercutio’s long hair. Then, with heavy steps and an even heavier heart, Benvolio ascended the stairs and emerged into the pale light of dawn.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Benvolio had always known he would never die young. 

Even in love, he had neither the recklessness to get himself killed in a fight nor the courage to end his own life.

In the end, he was just quiet, sensitive Benvolio.

And he would remain so until the end of his days, lonely and sad in his cottage by the graveyard with only ghosts from his past for company.

**Author's Note:**

> "Another day, another lonely night...  
> I would do anything to have you by my side.  
> Another day, another lonely night...  
> Don't wanna throw away another lonely life.
> 
> No time to sleep, all that I see, are old memories of you.  
> Yeah, I try my best, but there's no one left for me to lose."


End file.
